


far-reaching consequences

by proximally



Series: abandoned works [4]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, POV Second Person, Post-Undertale Neutral Route, Post-Undertale Neutral Route - Empress Undyne Ending, Suicidal Ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:02:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27152873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/proximally/pseuds/proximally
Summary: Now, Frisk stumbles out onto the Surface, less alone than they've ever been.Later, Empress Undyne has debts to collect.
Relationships: Frisk & Chara & Asgore
Series: abandoned works [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1981928
Kudos: 11
Collections: Good Intentions: Abandoned and Unfinished WIPs





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 'Taking a force there now could have far-reaching consequences, Vimes!’  
> ‘Good! You told me to drag them into the light! As far as they’re concerned, I _am_ far-reaching consequences!'  
> \--from _Thud!_ , by Sir Terry Pratchett.
> 
> originally written in april 2016.
> 
> if you'd like to take the concept and run with it, please feel free! i'd really appreciate this being linked back to though.
> 
> also please mind the tags & stay safe.
> 
> sidenote: yes i decided mt ebott is in france. i have to have spent 8 1/2 years in the french education system and learned about the massif centrale in primary school for something ok

You stumble out into the sunlight, and for all that the sight is a beautiful and welcoming one your eyes sting with tears and your knees tremble dangerously. You wipe at your face with one hand, trying to clear away the worst of the grossness, and too late do you realise what’s coating your fingers. A wave of revulsion and grief passes through you, unsettling your already-upset stomach, and you find yourself throwing up its contents into a bush. Not that there’s really all that much  _ to _ throw up, seeing as how monster food is more or less pure energy. Doesn’t make being sick much fun, though. (Doesn’t mean you don’t deserve it, either.)

Still shaking, you draw your knees up to your chest. Your trousers, too, are covered in a thin powder, and you want to throw up again but if there was nothing the first time, there’s definitely not now, so you take a few slow breaths to calm the nausea and do your damnedest to ignore the way the fine particles tickle the inside of your nose.

This dust...all this dust used to be a person.  _ People. _ It’s not like you’re just some hit-and-run assassin, you’re a fucking  _ serial killer. _ You’d tried to justify it to yourself, at the time, and that’s probably the worst part because there  _ is  _ no justification for murder. _ I was scared. I was frustrated. I didn’t realise what I was doing.  _ Valid excuses, perhaps, but not if you’d killed nearly a dozen people.

People with lives, people who had jobs and friends and family, people who loved and were loved, and now make up  _ your _ LOVE. You read once in the Librarby that the dust of dead monsters is scattered over the things they loved most, and you can’t help but think how  _ innocent, _ almost, that tradition is, because frankly there are far too many human murderers for such a custom to develop on the Surface. You are the very  _ last _ person your victims would have wanted their dust scattered over.

Through your blurry vision, you try to focus on your surroundings. You hadn’t exactly paid much attention in your ascent, too determined to reach your goal to be distracted, but you have time now. All the time in the world.

You’re a lot further down the mountainside, it seems, and you’re on the more thickly forested side. The sun is high but not overhead, so you’re not sure whether it’s before or after midday; judging by the heat, it’s probably after. The sky is blue, the air is still, cicadas chirp merrily all around, and if you threw yourself off this outcrop nobody would ever find your body.

_ Don’t you dare, _ says a voice, tired and hoarse and sounding the same way a cracked vase looks.  _ Don’t you  _ dare _ throw this away. Don’t you dare make their deaths meaningless, don’t you  _ fucking _ dare. I didn’t help you all this time so you could swan-dive off a fucking cliff.  _

You duck your head and step away from the edge, properly chastised. They’re right. They’re always right, you’ve come to realise, apart from the times they’re wrong. You can’t waste this. It doesn’t  _ matter _ that you feel worse now than the last time you were this side of the surface.  _ Good. Now get up off your ass and find us a way down this mountain - a SAFE way. None of that accidental-on-purpose suicide bullshit. _

Usually you might reply with a sarcastic  _ Yes, mother, _ but this is neither the time nor the place, so instead you get up off your ass and find yourselves a way down this mountain. If you consider the long drops you come across for longer than strictly necessary, well, Chara doesn’t comment.

* * *

This was a terrible idea, you decide, and your ghostly buddy concurs. There’s a reason you’re in a police station rather than on a bus home, but you must admit it never really crossed your mind that you’d have to explain it.

“It’s Frisk, right?” says the policewoman, and you feel both patronised and grateful that this is the person they picked to interrogate you. She’s youngish middle-aged, soft around the edges, with warm brown eyes and fluffy dark hair, and her voice has a practiced gentleness to it that makes you think she has young children of her own. 

You nod. 

“And how old are you, sweetie?”

You hold out both hands, fingers outstretched. An entire decade. You feel much older.

“Double digits!” she exclaims, “oh my! You’ll be as old as me before you know it. Now, honey, I understand this might be difficult, but you went missing two weeks ago - can you tell me what happened?”

You hesitate.

If you tell the truth, will they believe you? Or, worse, will they take you at your word? Would they cross the Barrier to confront the King who’d killed six other children, to find him dead and gone already, his own murderer living the high life on the Surface? If they found out how bloody your hands are, would they arrest you? Would they care?

“I climbed the mountain,” you tell her eventually, ignoring how your hands tremble more with every word. You’ve always been an awful liar. “I...tripped, into a hole. Then...then I was walking down the mountain, and now I’m here. I...don’t remember anything else.”

“That’s okay, sweetie,” she says, “Memory can be funny sometimes. But if you do remember, you can tell us, alright? Now, last question for now, then we’ll call your parents so they can pick you up. Can you tell me why you climbed the mountain?” the policewoman asks, scribbling something down in her notes; her pen taps against the screen with the  _ click-click _ of an initiated battle, and you freeze in place because they’re coming,  _ they’re coming,  _ **_they’re going to take your SOUL--_ **

_ Shh, _ says a voice, deep and steady, and you feel your control over your body slipping, your muscles relaxing of their own accord, the tremors ebbing, and it’s wrong, it’s  _ wrong _ \--  _ Shh, young one, you are safe. Let- let us help you. Do not fear. You are  _ safe. _ This I promise. _

There are two ghosts in your head and your body is no longer your own, but you get the impression of a warm bear hug and a cup of fragrant tea, and so you let your consciousness slip away. 

* * *

You are too passed-out to hear any of what happens next, but:

“I-I’m fine,” Chara stutters at the policewoman, putting on their best crybaby voice. “J-ust...p-please don’t call my p-parents. I don’t want to go b-back.  _ P-please _ .” Chara does not know your parents. You have never told them their names, never mentioned their disposition. Chara, however, is not unobservant, and they live in your head. They’ve noticed things. They  _ know.  _

They’re going to fix this. 

They cry some more, sob into the policewoman’s shoulder until she promises not to send you back, then while she calls social services they ask where the bathroom is - ostensibly to clean up the teary, snotty mess that is your face, but mostly they need to talk. 

They pick the stall furthest from the door, and lock it behind them. No interruptions.

_... Asgore? _ they ask, tentatively. He hasn’t been their father for a long, long time.

_ That is me, _ he replies,  _ though I am not sure how, or why. This does not appear to be my body. Do you know what has occurred? _

_...We killed you, _ says Chara, voice flat,  _ and absorbed your SOUL.  _

_ Oh,  _ says Asgore.

_ We’re in a police station on the Surface. Things...things will be hectic for a while. I don’t know how happy Frisk will be with me when they wake up. _

_ Frisk - the other, uh, person? _

_ Yes. They’re the owner of this body. They’re...they’re a good kid. They didn’t deserve this. _

_ So...who are  _ you? _ Have you been with, ah, Frisk for long? _

Chara is silent, for a long moment. Then: _ I’ve been here since they fell. Who I am...is not important.  _

_ I...see.  _ He very clearly does not, but Asgore is nothing if not polite and does not ask again.  _ You mentioned that they might not be pleased with your decisions? _

_ Mmh. I didn’t consult them on this. This way is better for them, but they might not see it that way. Especially...especially not now. _

_ What do you mean by that?  _ asks Asgore, though he is not entirely sure he wants to know.

_ I...am sure, that you are not unaware why children would climb a mountain with a history of disappearances. Frisk...didn’t want to hurt anyone. But they didn’t have a choice. I...I didn’t want them to die, too.  _ There’s a pause, and then, _ I need to get back to the police officer. She might be getting worried. _

Asgore is not entirely sure why they snort at that. What’s so funny about humans being worried?

* * *

For the next few weeks, until a more permanent home can be found for you, you stay with the policewoman’s sister. She works from home, so she can keep an eye on you, and her eldest just moved out, so she has the space. She’s friendly and kind, and she reminds you of Toriel and how much she must hate you now. She told you not to kill, and then what did you do? You murdered her ex-husband. 

It doesn’t matter that he’s living in your head. It doesn’t matter that he forgives you. You still killed him with his long-dead child’s gardening blade.

You haven’t once switched back with Chara. A dozen times a day they try to persuade you - they’d tried forcing it a couple times, but for whatever reason that only ever ended with Asgore at the helm and some sort of disaster - the late king was used to being a lot bigger, stronger, and composed of less water, and therefore tended to overestimate the body’s capabilities.


	2. Chapter 2

The first thing you notice is the sheer brightness, enough for you to instinctively shield your eye. You peer upwards through your squint and your knees tremble at the terrible vastness of it. You’ve seen the sky before, sort of - in Alphys’ videos, in waterlogged human magazines - but none of that could show the true  _ scale _ of it. Above you is blue, in every direction you care to look in; a few puffs of white drift serenely, guided by the stiff breeze that’s ruffling your hair. 

The anger, the determination that brought you here wanes at the sight of it, and all of a sudden, you feel very small. What are you  _ doing _ here? The Surface isn’t like the Underground - bigger, brighter, more unpredictable, that much you knew. You’ve prepared for this moment for five years of your life. But...none of your research really does it justice.

It’s so  _ big _ . They could be anywhere by now. 

You killed an innocent fucking child for nothing.

_ I made a promise, _ you’d told yourself. They’d looked into your eyes, terrified, their own red and watery because by all accounts the most dangerous thing they’d done was cry at people. Their hair, nearly as red as yours, done up on one side in a messy pigtail and loose on the other, the hairband long since lost. Their dress, floral and torn in places, streaked with mud and blood. All you’d heard them say was ‘please’. 

How they’d escaped the ex-queen’s misguided protection you didn’t care to ask, and you weren’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. Still...human scum or not, they were smaller even than the last one and you’re aware that even  _ they _ had been young. “I made a promise,” you told them, then, “Please close your eyes.” Perhaps you’re going soft, but you felt like they deserved a merciful end. Not like the other one.

“I made a promise,” you’d whispered to yourself, scooping up the pulsating heart. You promised the grieving Underground that you would avenge your late predecessor and all those others who perished at the human’s hands. You are Queen Undyne, and you do not go back on your word. You’d pushed the soul into your chest, and stepped through the Barrier.

You feel such  _ power  _ granted to you, stronger and more alive than you’ve ever experienced, and still you can do nothing. Nothing! This land is vast and the sky is vaster, and you’re here to find a single kid with a five-year headstart. Who are you kidding? Half a decade on, they might be unrecognisable, they might be the other side of the world - fuck, they might be  _ dead. _ However you slice it, they’re long gone, and this was always a fool’s errand. 

You lower yourself to the ground and cup your face in your hands. The darkness is familiar, almost comforting, but only until you recognise the scent of human blood on your fingers. You rip them away, noticing for the first time the dried red smears on your palms before you curl them into trembling fists. 

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. You were supposed to march forth triumphant, one murderer slain and off to find the next. You’d stride down the mountain, invincible, and you’d grab the human by the scruff of their scrawny neck. You’d list their many and varied misdeeds, smile as they quailed in fear, and hand them one of your spears. You like a fair fight, even though this would be one you could only come out of the victor. You’d take their soul and acquire the remaining five, then you’d return home a saviour. Your people would be free, at long last. 

You can still break the Barrier. You can still scrounge up the six souls. But not one of them will be that of they who most deserve it.

Fury pools in your gut. Asgore, Doggo, 01, 02, so many others...their killer would never be caught. Some fucking queen you turned out to be, huh? You don’t deserve to wear this crown. Never fucking did. You rip it from where it’s nestled in your hair, stand, and with a yell throw it as hard as you can back through the Barrier. 

Shame crushes you immediately.

That was his crown. The one who’d taught you to fight, taught you to make tea, who’d always been there to support you when you couldn’t go to your parents. The origin of half the mugs in your cupboard. That was  _ his _ crown, and you’d just tossed it aside like a used paper towel. 

It’s been five years, and you thought perhaps you’d got through that grief, but right now you’re trying very hard not to cry.

_ Um, e-excuse me, but who is that? _

You startle and scan your surroundings, but there’s nobody here but you and a bunch of rocks and weeds. “I’m going insane,” you mutter.

_ Um, I-I don’t want to bother, but, u-um, that monster looked like T-Toriel? Who are they? _

Ice runs down your spine. You think...you think maybe you know who this invisible voice is, and you’re not sure you like it much. Especially not if they can see what you’re thinking, holy shit.

You bite the bullet. “Are you the human whose soul I took?”

_ U-um. _

You are correct. You absorbed a human child’s soul, and now they’re haunting you. It...seems fair. If you absorb six more souls, do you get those ghosts too? If, somehow, you found the murderer, would they set up residence as well? Would you have to spend the rest of your life with the Underground’s greatest serial killer whispering in your ear?

You’d do it. If it meant freeing everyone, if it meant enacting justice, you’d do  _ anything. _

“That monster,” you tell the voice in your head, “was Asgore, our king. He was murdered five years ago by a human. You know the Surface, right? Then you’re going to help me catch them.” 

* * *

[...]

* * *

It’s been a slow sort of day. You woke to your alarm, ate cereal, got to school on time. You were informed of a French test taking place next week; you won’t worry about it now, you’ve got a whole weekend to revise. The English trip was cancelled due to the strikes and they can’t reschedule at this point, but that’s none of your concern seeing as you weren’t going anyway. The last bell goes, so you put away your pens and calculator and shove your maths books in your locker - the homework’s due tomorrow, but you’ve two study periods before then and it’ll help get you in a mathsy mood. That’s your excuse, anyway. 

End-of-day rush avoided, you pull on your coat and sling your bag over your shoulder - green, because it’s Chara’s favourite colour and you yourself have no preference - and you head out. It’s not cold, per se, but the weather this time of year tends towards the unpredictable and you’ve already been caught out once this month, and you’d rather not repeat the experience.

You’re a little less than halfway home when Chara whispers to you that you’re being followed.  _ The wind is howling, _ they add, because they revel in being unnecessarily dramatic. Your only response is to change your destination; you look both ways and cross the road, ignoring the flash of colour as somebody dives into an alleyway behind you. You continue down the road, turn right at the patisserie on the corner (whose galettes are the best in town, as agreed by everyone), left at the Italian restaurant you’ve never been to, then you’re pushing open the park’s gate. There’s a few dog walkers, a pair of joggers, but most people aren’t trusting the clouds today. That’s good.

You take a seat on an unoccupied bench, clasp your hands in your lap, and wait.

You’ve been waiting a long time. That made you a wreck of a human being in the beginning, because a ten-year-old with valid reason to believe that monsters are coming for their soul is not one that can really be helped by any conventional means, such as assuring them that the monsters have surely died out by now, and anyway nobody really remembers what mountain they were buried under - could’ve been here, could’ve been the Alps; hell, could’ve been the Pyrenees, the Apennines, the Carpathians. It’s ancient history, Frisk, there aren’t any monsters anymore. Please stop crying.

In the end, Chara had taken over for you until you’d arrived at some sort of acceptance, courtesy of Asgore who had much experience in the way of accepting unacceptable eventualities. None of you particularly want to die, which from one point of view could be considered amazing progress, but ultimately just makes all this worse. You regret - good god, do you regret - but if you tried to make things right, they’d tear you apart. Again and again, because reloading only works Underground, and you’ll not make it through again.

_ Are you certain about this? _ asks Asgore, not for the first time.


End file.
